


Slowly, Gently, Softly

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Kissing, M/M, bed sharing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7752592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walks in and sits down on the edge of the bed.  Sherlock’s breath hitches.</p><p>“You can tell me to go.  Tell me now, and I’ll go.”</p><p>There is a rustling behind him as Sherlock shifts over on the mattress, and pulls the coverlet back in invitation.  </p><p>“Stay.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay

**Author's Note:**

> This first appeared as a duo of fics ("Stay" and "Slowly, Gently, Softly) on my sussexbound account on tumblr. I've stepped away from the fandom on tumblr, and have shuttered that blog for the time being, but have had a few people ask for this fic, so I'm posting it here, like this. Enjoy!

“I’m going to bed.”

John looks up from his book, the soft glow of the fire in the unfamiliar hearth flickers over Sherlock’s face, over his long fingers worrying the cuffs of his dressing gown, bare toes curling and uncurling against the cold wood floor of the cottage in Cornwall they’ve let for a month.

“Yeah?  You feeling okay?”

“Just tired.”

“Okay.  I’ll be up for a bit.  Not tired yet.  Shout if you need me.”

“Yes…”  Sherlock stands there a moment more, weaving a little as though he’s already starting to fall asleep on the spot.  “Good-night, then.”

“Mm.  ‘Night.”

Sherlock retreats up the stairs.  John listens to his footsteps above, the rush of water as he uses the loo, and then silence when he finally retreats to the bedroom directly overhead.  He looks down at the book in his lap, tries to pick up the track of the rather predictable thriller where he left off, and realises he’s no longer interested.

It’s odd that, how since he’s come home again he feels distinctly and immediately unmoored the moment Sherlock is out of site.  Even if he is as close as the next room, it feels too much to bear.  John’s felt this way before.  After Sherlock came back from the dead.  Like something in his chest was tearing and bleeding with all the distance, even though it was only just 30 minutes on the tube from his flat in Acton back to Baker Street.  He’d pushed it down brutally, painfully, then, because he thought it was what Sherlock wanted.  It wasn’t.  And John still isn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.

He is a free man now, as free as a man can be when still haunted by the ghosts of his mistakes, and a child he could not save.  But he is free to do what his heart dictates—if only he can find the courage.  And really, how much courage would this require?  He knows now.  He’s seen it with his own two eyes.  

He’s seen the look of shock, of disbelief, and then of overwhelming relief on Sherlock’s face the night John strolled into Barts’ morgue—a dead man walking.  It had been a narrow miss.  He’d not been in the car that had gone over the bridge, despite all reports to the contrary.  He’d strolled in, completely clueless that he was supposed to be dead, and he’d seen…  He’d felt Sherlock trembling uncontrollably in his arms, felt him wet the shoulder of John’s jumper with his tears.  He’d seen Sherlock come apart at the thought of his death, and it had quietly changed something between them.

John gets up.  He sets the book aside. He shuts off the gas to the fireplace, and checks the locks on the doors, flicks off the lamp, and makes his way upstairs in the dark.

The light in the small toilet buzzes as John brushes his teeth.  He looks at himself in the mirror.  He looks older, and younger all at once.  The last few years have taken their toll, there is no question, but he has made a decision, now, here, in this moment, and he feels all the lighter for it.

Back in his room he strips out of his clothes, shrugs into a clean T-Shirt and pair of pants, and then shuts the light off, and pads across the hall to the room Sherlock has selected for himself.  The door is open.  It feels like an invitation.  It was always open, John realises…  Always.

He walks in and sits down on the edge of the bed.  Sherlock’s breath hitches.

“You can tell me to go.  Tell me now, and I’ll go.”

There is a rustling behind him as Sherlock shifts over on the mattress, and pulls the coverlet back in invitation.  

“Stay.”

And so he does.


	2. Slowly, Gently, Softly

John wakes sometime in the wee hours.  The room is velvety black.  There is no sound save the distant roar of the sea.  He’s hot.  His heart is racing, cock half hard in his pants.  He’s not alone.  The warm curve of Sherlock’s back is pressed against his arm, breath deep and steady.

John slips carefully from beneath the sheets, and makes his way to the loo.  The cold tile against his bare feet wakes him up a little, but still he stands in the dark to piss, wiping one hand across his eyes, and sighing deeply.

He can feel it again, that tug.  Sherlock is only across the hall, and here John is, using the toilet in the middle of the night and aching for him.  It’s ridiculous.  He has no idea what it means, but is definitely ridiculous.  He washes his hands, and hurries back to bed, relishing in the warmth beneath the covers now he’s gotten chilled from the nighttime cool of the house.

Sherlock stirs a little, rolls over, gravitates toward John as though sensing he had been missed.  He lets out a soft sigh, followed by a hum of contentment, as he scoots down, and buries his face in John’s neck.  

This is new.  It had not been like this when John first came to bed.  They had said little.  Sherlock had rolled onto his side to face John in the dark.  “It was a good idea coming here.  It’s quiet.”

“Yeah.  I’m glad we’re here too.”

And then Sherlock’s hand had inched across the mattress to settle warmly over John’s.  “Thank you.”

And John had squeezed his hand in response, and they must have fallen asleep that way, because John can’t remember anything else after that—until he’d wakened, on his back, half hard, and sticky with sweat.  He can’t remember what he had been dreaming, but it wasn’t a nightmare.

Sherlock’s breath is warm against his neck, and John can feel his body responding, the way each puff of air seems to light up his nerve endings, accelerate his heartbeat, increase the ache in his chest and add to another, different ache, lower still.  And that—that is something he doesn’t even know if Sherlock wants, if Sherlock does.  Sometimes he thinks…  But then…

Reaching down, John brushes the hair away from Sherlock’s forehead.  Sherlock’s arms have wrapped around him now, and he’s clinging, tight, like the night John had walked into Barts alive instead of dead.  He’s clinging like he never wants to let him go.

“ _John_?”

“Yeah.  I’m here.”

Sherlock presses his lips to the side of John’s neck, just behind his ear, and John’s head goes light, his pulse throbbing against Sherlock’s lips, his skin tingling, alive.

“ _John…_ ”  John has never heard his name said like this—not from anyone’s lips—not family, not friends, not even lovers.  It’s like a prayer, like to Sherlock he is something sacred, something of indescribable value and beauty.  “ _John…_ ”  And John lets him kiss his neck, and murmur words he cannot catch against his skin, to pull him closer, tighter.

John lets out a sound that should be embarrassing, but he can’t think about that now can’t think about anything but…

Sherlock stills.  A sudden tension comes to his body.

John tilts his head a little to the side, and whispers into warm curls.  “You okay?”

Sherlock lets out a small burst of breath against John’s neck.  “John?”  He sounds disoriented.

“Mmm?”

“Tell me something I don’t know about you, something I’ll know is true?”

John huffs out a laugh.  “Not sure there’s anything you don’t know ‘bout me.”

“John, please.”  John’s brow furrows, at the change in tone.  Sherlock sounds desperate, almost—frightened.  

“Umm…  Okay.  When I was fourteen I took a rough tackle during a game of rugby and broke two ribs.”

Sherlock pulls back a little, and tilts his chin up.  John can’t see his expression, but it feels like he’s being measured up.

Sherlock sucks in a short breath.  “Oh.  I—I thought I was dreaming.”

“When?”

“Just now.”

“You mean when you were…?”

“I’m sorry.”

Something tight and sour twists in the pit of John’s stomach.  “Oh.  Yeah.   Well.  It was fine.  I didn’t…  It was fine.”

“Was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh…”  Revelation.  “Is it?”  It’s barely a whisper.

“Yeah,” John whispers back, heart in his throat.

And then Sherlock is there, fumbling about in the dark, breath on John’s cheek, and nose, and mouth as he seeks out his lips.  They find one another in a scrambling of limbs, and momentary bumping of noses, gasps, hands grabbing franticly at T-shirts, fingers fisting in curls, and a tangle of tongues, and desperate moans, and whimpers of relief.  Finally.  Finally…

When they finally pull apart again, panting against one another’s mouths, desperate to catch their breath, John smiles.  He feels buoyant, light in a way he hasn’t in years.  He huffs out a laugh.  “Well then…”

He feels rather than sees Sherlock’s lips stretch into a smile to mirror his own.  “Yes.”

John dips in and kisses him again—slower this time—sweeter, and they take their time with it, keeping the flames of their desire banked low, and warm.  It would be so easy to just give in fully, a wild tumble to the finish, but John doesn’t want that, somehow.  

It has been so long—so long!  All this waiting, all these things unsaid, unexpressed, and it’s too important now.  It begs care, gentle exploration, patience, the subtle joy of new paths meticulously explored. It’s new to John, and to Sherlock, it seems—all of it, and John feels like a child again, infinitely curious and thrilled at the possibilities.

And so they take their time, now they have it.  They say all the things they’ve always meant to—without words—as has always been their way.  

Slowly.  

Gently.  

Softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to sort of leave the chapter count open ended, because I'm not sure if I'll add more to this at some point.


End file.
